Thank Heavens for Churches

 Last week, the most beautiful thing I saw was in a church.  It was Sarrat Flower Festival and the ancient church was glowing with fragrant dewy arrangements, each representing a saint.

Last week, the funniest thing I heard was in a church. Sue was being ordained as a priest in Aylesbury.  A senior priest issued a cautionary tale to the new ordinands.  She had been visiting an old lady and had helped herself to the little dish of peanuts on the old lady’s coffee table. At length she realised she had eaten all of them.  Guilt-stricken, she bought her another bag.  The old lady’s response: “Oh you needn’t have bothered, Vicar.  I don’t like peanuts.  That’s why, when my son gives me a box of chocolate peanuts, I just suck the coating off, and put them in this little dish.”

Last week, the most inspiring thing I heard was in a church.  Kath was preaching at St Luke’s.  She reminded us of the brilliant rainbow which had lit up our neighbourhood the night before.  When God blessed us it felt like that.  However, just like the rainbow, the memory would fade.  But that did not mean we had never been blessed.  Just like the rainbow, it had really happened.  We must try to hold on to remembrance of glory.

And in each of those places, a volunteer was manning the tea urn and offered me a cuppa afterwards.

Thank Heavens for our churches – still at the heart of our communities.

A Profound Learning Experience

I left Buckingham Palace in my fascinator and court shoes, took the tube to Euston and caught a train to the Peak District. 

I loved the stateliness of the Garden Party, but I would enjoy hiking in the Peak District even more.  Walking in the hills would encourage contemplation and help me to answer some of the Questions that Life Poses.

Carol, Caroline and Diane were there waiting for me as night fell on Buxton Station.  They told me my fascinator looked “Lovely!”  I preened coyly.

Unfortunately, when I removed my court shoes that night, I discovered that I had sustained a Garden Party Injury – a large, raw blister.  It limited the scope of our walks.  The others were very patient.  Although at breakfast the next day they did suggest that I might like to stop wearing my fascinator now.

However, in spite of our walks being curtailed, I DID discover the answer to one of the Questions that Life Poses.   Carol was kindly putting us up in her house so I was not surprised to see an unopened pot of my jam in her larder. 
I was surprised however to see that it was Mirabelle jam.  I have not made Mirabelle jam since July 2014.

I had thought that I had begun to see the rolling eyes of panic when I handed friends their annual selection of jams and chutneys at Christmas, but when questioned directly, they always pronounced them “delicious”. 

So I had two choices.  The first was to re-think my entire food-manufacture and gift-giving policy; the second, to carry on regardless. 

I think there is a photo somewhere of me eating toast heaped with three-year-old jam, my fascinator crammed firmly on my head.

A Phalanx of Fascinators

What is the collective noun for fascinators?

A flotilla, a flirtation, a fluttering?

Not a word I have ever needed before the Royal Garden Party last week. 

When Nigel and I boast loudly and shamelessly about our invitation, people ask three questions:

1)      Why were YOU invited? (Tone varying from the incredulous to the mildly aggressive.)

I was there as Nigel’s plus one.  Nigel was there because, as chair of his industry trade association, he helped DEFRA solve a problem with electricals recycling. The invitation was their way of saying thank you.

2)      Was the tea good?

It was very nice indeed thank you.  My fave was the cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off and the innovation of an added mint leaf.

3)      Did you get to shake hands with the Queen?

No – nobody does.  I don’t know why not. Possibly she has a fake hand which comes off if you shake it?  However, we did set eyes on her trundling around elegantly in pale blue. 

There seems to be more hat and less Queen with each passing year. 

But to return to fascinators, (and who wouldn’t wish to), headgear was a requirement of the day.  I tried on only one fascinator and declared, “This makes me look like a complete pillock.  I’ll take it!” I felt sure that no other fascinator would look any better, so why waste time? 

During the course of the afternoon I caught my fascinator on tree boughs, Nigel’s jacket and the flap of the marquee. 

Looking about me, I regretted our collective fashion choice.  Women of substance who had achieved accolades in their careers or in charity work were bobbing along looking as if they had sexually-aroused tropical birds on their heads.

As one fellow guest said, “This is a very sad day for the man who invented the hat.”

In Royal loos